Vesuvius
by Petroica traversi
Summary: Richard is sure the man in his dreams is someone who can help him, but being strapped to a hospital bed makes sending out an S.O.S rather difficult.
1. Chapter 1

He was always vaguely surprised to wake up in his hospital bed. He wasn't sure why... after such a long time, he figured he'd have gotten used to it. But most mornings, or afternoons, or whenever he happened to awaken, there was often a moment of shock when the bedroom that usually appeared in his dreams was replaced by stark, white walls, devoid of any kind of decoration, save the smears of blood he'd often leave on them after tearing his skin open with his teeth, just so he'd have something to look at when he was strapped to the bed.

The cleaning crew usually washed the blood off the walls within a few hours anyway, after Richard had been thoroughly strapped down, but at least it gave him a temporary respite from the buzzing sound the blank walls seemed to emit.

After these "episodes" his therapist would often come to his room, once the sedatives they forced into his body had taken effect, and he'd stopped screaming. Today was no different, and as usual he ignored her as she made herself comfortable in the chair beside his bed.

"I thought the point of a mental hospital was to make its patients better and send them on their way," he drawled, addressing the ceiling.

"It is," she said mildly.

"I would think, if nothing else, that a patient showing symptoms of schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder would be on medication, for starters."

"I've told you before, Richard, this isn't that kind of hospital."

"Right, of course," he said.

He had his doubts that this was actually a hospital at all. He'd never been allowed out of his room, and had yet to see or hear any signs that there were other patients in the building. Ever since the day he'd woken up there, with no recollection of who he really was, the only visitors he ever received were doctors and men who seemed to work for the government in some capacity, all of whom called him "Jim" and asked him odd questions about his pre-bullet career (employees, bank accounts, et cetera, none of which he remembered), and a few rape-happy "security" guards. And of course the people and creatures he hallucinated.

"And then, of course, there's the physical abuse, which nobody ever bothers to stop."

"That's just a hallucination," his therapist said, "It's all in your head."

It was a lie, and they both knew it.

"Yes, I suppose I hallucinate the blood on the sheets in the morning too, then? And the pain?"

"Why did you draw a tiger on your wall?" she asked him, changing the subject.

"Oh," he said, glancing at it, enjoying the way his blood ran from its sharp teeth, "I don't know. I like tigers, I guess. I do have a large tattoo of one done on my ribcage, so wouldn't you say that's a fair assumption to make? As a psychiatrist, what do you think it says about a man when he has a large tattoo of something?"

She shrugged at him.

"Maybe you just thought it made you look tough," she said, apparently not interested in rehashing the tired old subject.

He laughed at that, because the impression he'd received from the government men who'd visited him had been that "looking tough" had never been a problem for him, small though he was. With the exception of one tall man who carried an umbrella, they had all seemed intimidated by him, despite the fact that he was always strapped to the bed when they came by.

"That is very insightful," he said, "I can see why you became a therapist in the first place, with your astonishing critical thinking skills."

She glared at him for a moment, and then fumbled with her pen when he stared her down.

"And have you had any more hallucinations, or recurring dreams?" she continued.

"No," he said crossly, still glaring at her, though he had, actually. There was currently some kind of colorful beast floating through the air, but he could tell it wasn't real, and the men he often dreamed about had both been in to "visit" him today. He knew the security camera in the corner of the room had captured his conversations with these phantoms, so he didn't understand why the woman even bothered to ask.

"I can't help you if you keep lying to me," she said, pulling his attention from the flying whatever it was.

"I sincerely doubt you're interested in helping me at all," he hissed at her, "I've been here for God knows how long... years, I guess, and the more they keep me strapped down to this bed, with nothing to do even when I'm granted the 'freedom' of being let up, the more I can feel my sanity slipping away. If you cared half as much as you pretend to, you'd find a way to help me, rather than just coming in here and asking me questions to which you already have an answer."

"The point of therapy is for me to ask you questions, to make _you _think about the answers," she said, her face flushing with anger.

"All I ever do is think," he snapped at her, "That's all I can do, being strapped to this fucking bed for most of the day! The longer I'm here, the worse I get, and if you had any idea what you were doing you might actually come up with a way to make me better! You come in here several times a week, we have the same conversation, and it leads nowhere. You're no different than those government men, except you come in with a concerned look on your face and pretend to be looking out for my best interests, instead of simply trying to beat the answers out of me. "

"Why don't you stop playing around and just admit that you remember who you are!" she shouted at him, and he stared at her, surprised. In the hundreds of conversations they'd had, she'd never once hinted that she didn't believe him.

"Well, my dear, I'm sorry to say that I really don't remember a thing, but if anything occurs to me I certainly won't be confiding in you."

She huffed at him, and stormed from the room, slamming the door dramatically behind her as she went.

And he was left alone with his hallucinations once more.

X

The first few times he hallucinated Sebastian, he thought he'd really come to rescue him. He didn't remember the man, not really, but he'd had some amazing dreams about him that had made his therapist blush when he described them, and he knew that whoever the man was, they'd been close, once. It was only after begging the man to let him up, to touch him, anything, that he realized he was just a hallucination. Sebastian would only shake his head sadly, and reach out to touch Richard, only to have his fingers go right through his skin.

After a while he came to accept that Sebastian either wasn't real, or wasn't coming for him. Still, it was nice to have someone to talk to who didn't shout at him or try to hurt him, even if they were just in his head. Sebastian was smart, and calm, and always seemed happy to see Richard, who he called Jim, just like the government men. He assumed that his was his real name, even though it didn't feel right to him.

"I drew a tiger today," he told Sebastian, as he sat down at the edge of the bed, just out of Richard's reach.

"I saw that," Sebastian replied, staring at him sadly.

"They washed it off the wall, but it made me happy. I'd like to see a real tiger some day. When I get out of here."

"Do you know why you have that tattoo, Jim?"

"To look tough?" he asked, arching an eyebrow playfully.

Sebastian laughed quietly.

"No, because _I _like tigers. You got it for me, for our anniversary a few years ago."

"I got a tattoo because you wanted me to?" he asked, surprised, because the impression that he'd gotten about their relationship was that he was the one running the show, not Sebastian.

"No," Sebastian replied, grinning, "You got it as a surprise for me. I came home that afternoon, and you were laying on the bed, naked, with this gorgeous beast tattooed across your ribs. And then, of course, you wouldn't have sex with me because you didn't want me to accidentally scratch it or something and mess it up. You were such a little bitch sometimes."

"Still am, I expect," Richard replied, smiling.

Someone was at his door, fumbling to unlock it. From the sound he could tell it was the security guard who liked to take advantage of him late at night. The man was always rough with him, and usually left him bleeding in his bed.

"You have to get me out of here, Sebastian," he said, his heart slamming in his chest.

"I will," he said, fading into nothingness, "As soon as I can."

Richard believed him, though he wasn't sure why.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock peered into darkened rooms as he followed his brother down a long corridor.

"Why didn't you tell me about this before?" he asked.

"I didn't think it concerned you," Mycroft responded, sparing Sherlock a haughty glance.

"Really. That's what you thought."

"Alright, so I just didn't want to get you involved. Lord knows what your reaction would be. 'By the way, dear brother, James Moriarty is alive, and claiming to have memory loss, and goes by the name Richard these days.' You would undoubtedly want to see him, and that might have messed up the plans," Mycroft said, leading Sherlock into a small white room, which had another, closed door against the opposite wall, and a desk in the corner. The desk had several monitors set upon it, showing what looked like security footage of a tiny hospital room. Sherlock stared at the screen for a moment, and watched as James Moriarty, completely naked and strapped down to a bed, was hit repeatedly by a large man who was shouting questions at him. He didn't seem to be responding.

"I could turn up the volume, if you'd like to listen in," Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned and glared at him.

"Why are you showing me this, now?"

"We've attempted several different ways of making him talk... from having some of my people pretend to be therapists, in order to gain his trust, to flat-out torture. We've been escalating the torture lately because, frankly, we're all getting pretty sick of him. Nothing works, of course. He's still claiming to have memory loss, and the only information we've gained is useless bits and pieces that he says he saw in his dreams: how his flat was decorated, how he spent his free time, an excessively thorough description of his sex life, and so on. Nothing we can use."

Sherlock sat down in a chair by the wall, and rubbed his hands over his face.

"And what is it that you're trying to learn?"

"Everything," Mycroft responded, "We want to know how his organization was run, and what might be left of it. We want to know who worked for him, and what they did. And we've been after his computer codes since before this whole... incident."

They both looked toward the door as the large man who had been on the security cameras stepped through it. Mycroft looked at him expectantly, but he only shook his head as he shut the door behind him.

"Nothing," he said, glancing at Sherlock curiously, "Just like the last 800 times."

"Right," Mycroft said, shooing the man away with a lazy flick of his wrist.

Sherlock made sure he was gone before speaking again.

"So why me? What makes you think he'll tell me anything if the people you have trained for interrogation can't even get him to talk?"

"The man's obsessed with you, even if he pretends not to remember who you are. He claims to have dreams about you, and when he has conversations with his hallucinations, we believe you're one of the people he speaks to. We've been trying for nearly two years to get information out of him, and it's been a real headache. Bringing you in is sort of a last-ditch effort, I'm afraid to say."

He paused for a minute, and stared at Sherlock, clearly deciding whether or not to tell him something.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know if you're aware of this or not, but before all of this happened, we held him for a few weeks for interrogation. Even then, we couldn't get him to speak, until... until the subject of you came up."

"In what way?"

"All I'll say is he was very interested in hearing about you. He opened up a bit after that. So... that's why you're here, Sherlock. I'm hoping it works again, especially since he expects you to be dead. Perhaps you can share anecdotes about surviving suicide attempts."

Sherlock glared at his older brother.

"You know very well that's not-"

"Yes, yes, Sherlock. I know. You've told me the whole story. Now, please. Go speak to him. See what you can find out."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, before rising from his chair and adjusting his jacket.

"You'll have to turn the security cameras off. I don't want some leaked footage somehow getting out and exposing me."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said with exasperation, but he turned to a computer on the desk, scrolling through a few programs and shutting the security cameras down.

"Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Sherlock replied, and opened the door to Jim's room.

X

He could immediately tell there was something different about the man on the bed, although he had no way of knowing whether it was actually from memory loss, or simply the way in which he'd been treated for the last few years.

There were bruises scattered across his body, and dried semen splattered across his chest. His nose was bleeding, and there was also a stream of blood trickling from his mouth. He looked listlessly at Sherlock as he entered the room, but the restraints on his arms, legs, and chest prevented him from moving, otherwise. Not that he seemed to have any interest in moving. Sherlock imagined the various injuries that littered his body would have kept him down, even if he hadn't been restrained.

"You've never come in through the door before," he mumbled.

"What?" Sherlock asked, crossing his arms across his chest as he sat in the chair next to the bed. The room was freezing cold.

"You know," Jim said vaguely, "You always sort of just... appear. All my hallucinations do. They never actually 'enter' the room. So... I wonder... would you touch me?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock said, wondering if this was really just a bad dream.

"I want to know if you're real or not..." he trailed off, and his eyes slid shut for a moment. He seemed to be struggling to remain conscious.

"I can assure you that I am real," Sherlock said, watching as Jim struggled to reopen his eyes.

"Yeah, but you always say that. I require proof. I'm not trying to be funny or anything. You can just touch my hand or arm. Hell, you can slap me for all I care, although that might make me pass out at this point."

Jim stared at him expectantly, so Sherlock decided it might be best to just play along. He reached forward, and gently pressed the tip of his finger to Jim's arm. It was cold to the touch.

"Amazing," Jim murmured, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to take these damn straps off, would you?"

"I don't think that's allowed."

"Ah," he sighed, "Well, could you at least pull the blankets from where they've been stashed under the bed? I'm not really a fan of having a conversation while I'm naked and freezing to death."

"You seem to have a lot of faith that I won't hurt you," Sherlock said as he reached for the blankets.

He pulled them over Jim's body, and Jim shrugged.

"You haven't hit or raped me yet. And it isn't as if I could do anything to stop you, if that's what you came here for," he said, smiling a little as Sherlock settled the blankets around him, "But I don't think that's why you're here, is it? I don't remember much about you, but I've gotten the impression that we were... some kind of rivals?"

"You threatened to kill several of my friends, destroyed my reputation, and blackmailed me into taking a nose dive off a roof. I'm not sure rivals exactly sums it up."

"Ah," Jim said, staring blankly at Sherlock, "Then why are you here? Revenge? You certainly wouldn't be the first."

"No, I suppose I was the last resort in terms of your interrogation. And I was curious," he paused for a moment, watching a trickle of blood run from Jim's nose down his cheek. Jim turned his head try to and rub the blood off his face and onto his pillow, but couldn't quite make it.

"And even though I hate you for what you did to me," Sherlock continued, "I can't help but feel we have some sort of connection, even now. Perhaps rivals isn't too far off base, considering. You and I are, or were, very similar, in a lot of ways. You're as close to an intellectual equal as I think I'll ever come."

"Oh, stop, you'll make me blush," Jim said, grinning slightly.

They watched each other in silence for a moment, before Sherlock looked away, picking absently at a thread on his cuff.

"You know, everyone think you're faking it," he said quietly.

"Obviously. Do you?"

"I don't think so. Unless this is some part of an extremely elaborate, long-term plan."

"If I were to come up with an extremely elaborate, long-term plan, I think it would involve a little more than laying in a hospital bed for two years, getting beaten and having conversations with phantoms."

"Ah, well, one can never be sure with you."

Jim laughed quietly, and then coughed, wincing in pain.

"Do you remember anything useful? So that I might placate my brother?"

"The man with the umbrella?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, nothing important. Bits and pieces. Tell me, do you know a man named Sebastian? He's tall and has sandy blonde hair. Looks rather fetching with a gun in his hand."

"Can't say I'm familiar with him."

"Could you find him for me?"

"No."

Sherlock watched, as something shifted behind Jim's eyes. The old James Moriarty was definitely in there somewhere.

"Listen to me. I need someone to contact him for me. It's very important," he said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot, "You're the only other person I can remember in any way, and you're the only one who hasn't tried to hurt me yet. So I need you to do this for me. Ok?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, watching as a dangerous expression emerged upon Jim's face.

"I'll do anything you want, Sherlock, please," he said through clenched teeth, "I'm going to die in this fucking room if you don't help me."

"What exactly do you think you can do for me? You're strapped to a bed, and you don't even remember who you are."

"I might not remember the details, but I can tell from the way I've been treated that I was once someone very powerful. I was God, once, and Sebastian was the Wrath of God. Whatever I did to make you leap from that roof, I'm certain he knows about it. You might think you're safe with me locked away, but unless you cut a deal with me, he will hunt you down."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself," he said, smirking, "especially for someone who claims to have memory loss."

Jim struggled against his binds, his face going red with anger.

"Get me out of here, Sherlock!" he screamed, "If you don't I'll make sure every single person you love is murdered!"

"That's your answer to everything," Sherlock said, standing up and backing away from the bed.

He blocked the sound of Jim screaming from his mind as he left the room. He had some thinking to do.


	3. Chapter 3

Sebastian sighed as he approached the door to his flat. It had been another fairly disastrous day. Since Jim's death, he had done his best to keep the business going on his own, but he felt as if he was trying to play 21 pick-up in the middle of a tornado. Bit by bit, the things Jim had worked so hard to control had slipped between his fingers, even as he scrambled to keep hold of them.

He considered giving it all up several times, but it was really all he had left of his boss and lover. Jim had been the most important person in Sebastian's life, and probably always would be. He wasn't ready to move on just yet. Still, most of the work had become so dull and tedious that he often looked for any outlet through which he could vent his frustration. Which is why he was almost happy when he returned home to his normally empty flat to find Sherlock Holmes sitting upon his sofa.

"I'd say you look good for a dead man, Sherlock, but I'd hate to stroke your already overblown ego," he said, setting his keys upon the kitchen counter, "so I guess I'll settle for asking you what the hell you think you're doing in my flat."

"Sebastian Moran," Sherlock said, "Age 37, dishonourably discharged from the military due to 'violent tendencies'. You returned to London nearly ten years ago, and have been working for Jim Moriarty ever since. You're well-known for your shooting abilities, and once climbed down a storm drain to kill a tiger, which nearly killed you in turn. And you're a published author of two books, which is rather surprising, I'd say. I wouldn't have expected a common criminal to be intelligent, but all evidence leads me to believe you are, despite having the rather severe disadvantage of a short temper and a problem with authority."

"No matter what you might think of me, Sherlock, I'm no common thug. Do you think Moriarty would have put up with me for so long if I was? You'd do well not to underestimate me," Sebastian answered irritably.

It was the fact that Sherlock brought up the tiger story that got on his nerves, because nobody, not even Jim, had ever understood what really happened. He hadn't wanted to shoot the damned thing, but orders were orders, and if he hadn't, someone else would have. As a result he'd been painted as some kind of bloodthirsty poacher, which couldn't be father from the truth. At least, not the poaching part.

"Now, if you're done trying to impress me random facts about my life that nearly anyone could have uncovered, kindly tell me what you're doing here, or fuck off before I kill you myself," Sebastian said, staring him down.

"I have an offer to make you," Sherlock answered impassively.

"Uh huh. How did you find my flat, anyway?"

"Homeless network. You were easier to find than I expected. Apparently it's fairly well known that 'the blonde man who used to run around with James Moriarty' is still living in his former boss's flat. Tell me, was he just your boss, or was there more to the relationship than that? It's easy to see that your life has been a disaster since he's been gone."

Sebastian's face went red, and he slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out his handgun, aiming it directly at Sherlock's head. Sherlock raised his hands, a smirk firmly entrenched upon his face.

"Don't fuck with me, Sherlock," he said.

"Seems I struck a nerve? No matter. You'll want to hear what I have to say before you shoot me."

"I doubt that very much, but go ahead if you think it will save your life."

"I met someone the other day who is looking for you."

"Lots of people are looking for me. Stop with the mystery bullshit and just speak plainly, or I really am going to shoot you, ok?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, before making himself more comfortable on the sofa.

"Fine. Moriarty is still alive, in a manner of speaking, and he asked me to look for you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sebastian asked, his finger twitching on the gun's trigger.

"The other day my brother brought me to a government facility in which he is being kept. He claims not to remember who he is, which I believe to be true, and it seems that the only two people he does remember are me, and a 'blonde man named Sebastian'. As I said before, you weren't too hard to find."

"You're lying!"

"I'm not, I assure you. I've brought proof," Sherlock said reaching into his coat and withdrawing a flash drive from his pocket. He handed it to Sebastian, who accepted it with hesitation.

"Stay here," he snapped, waving the gun vaguely in Sherlock's face before heading to his bedroom to look at whatever was on the flash drive on his laptop.

Somehow he could tell Sherlock had snooped around in there. Nothing was out of place, of course, but it was just a feeling he had. He tried to ignore the rage creeping in on the edge of his senses, but the thought of that man sneaking around in the bedroom he'd shared with Jim was infuriating to him.

He pushed those thoughts aside as he plugged the flash drive into his computer and opened the video he found upon it.

Some part of him had wanted Sherlock to have been lying. In many ways he had finally begun to accept that Jim was never coming back to him, and the grainy security video that was playing on his screen ripped open all the wounds that he thought had finally healed.

Jim was strapped to a bed, screaming violently at someone who was either off-camera, or not really there at all. After a few minutes of threats and profanity, a man dressed in hospital scrubs entered the room, and shut Jim up by holding a pillow over his face until he passed out. Then the video cut off.

He didn't know when he had started crying. He felt nothing but cold, hard shock as he made his way back into the living room, his gun in his hand. He aimed it at Sherlock once more, as he dried his face with his other hand. He felt the kind of calm he had before a job come over him: the cold determination to get through whatever must be done to achieve his goals.

"Tell me where he is, or I'm going to kill you right now."

"Temper, temper. I didn't come all this way just to hassle you. As I said before, I'd like to make a deal. I'd prefer to discuss this without a gun being pointed at my head, though."

Sebastian hesitated, but slowly lowered the gun after a moment, placing it on the counter within arms' reach.

"So, deal," he said.

"I'll tell you where Moriarty is if you promise me that my friends will not be harmed if I return to my own life. When I saw him, Moriarty suggested that you probably knew his plan, and as such you have at least some ability to call it off, I assume."

"Knew his plan? Who do you think had a gun aimed at your precious John's head?" Sebastian said, enjoying the look of rage that flickered across Sherlock's face.

"Then you have the ability to put a stop to it," he said through clenched teeth.

"Well, I suppose, but I don't think Jim-"

"Listen to me!" Sherlock interrupted, "The Jim you knew? He's dead. The man that's left doesn't remember the plan himself, but he told me that whatever it was, you could put a stop to it as long as it got him out of that hospital room. I want my life back. You want Jim back, I assume. And Jim wants you to come get him. Everyone wins."

Sebastian huffed, and mulled over the information. If this was some sort of ploy of Sherlock's that Jim hadn't actually authorised, Jim would be furious when he found out. However, if that were the case, it wasn't as if they couldn't renege on their part of the agreement, and kill Sherlock's friends anyway, and Sherlock himself, if Sebastian had any say in it. Either way, he wouldn't find out until he had Jim back, and that couldn't be achieved without Sherlock's help.

"Ok, I accept. Anything else?"

"Yes. Once you have Moriarty and he's well enough to travel, I want you both out of London. I don't care where you go or what you do... start up another criminal empire for all I care. But I never want to see either of you ever again, understand? If I do I'll alert my brother as to your whereabouts, and this time there will be no one to save either of you."

"Fine, fine," Sebastian agreed. He knew it would be idiocy to keep Jim in London anyway. Hell, they'd probably leave the country, not just the city itself.

"You have to help me bust him out, though," Sebastian said, "Because frankly I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, and this could very easily be a trap."

"Right, ok," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

"Great! Then let's work out a plan, and we can get this show on the road," Sebastian said, grinning at the thought of seeing Jim again.


	4. Chapter 4

Another long day of interrogation had taken its toll on Richard. The men who were sent in to speak to him were becoming increasingly violent, and he could tell it was only a matter of time before they gave up and had him executed, unless he was beaten to death first. He honestly didn't think he would mind that. After all, it certainly was better than the alternative of spending the rest of his life locked into his tiny room.

Despite the intense pain from his injuries and the increasing concern that some of his wounds were becoming infected, he concentrated on the pattern of his breathing and eventually slipped into a deep sleep. Deep enough that he didn't hear the masked man enter his room, and breathe out his name with a combination of sadness and relief.

What awoke him was the feeling of someone releasing the restraints on his feet. He lashed out as best he could, but the man held his legs in place with a gentle hand.

"Relax," he said, "I'm here to help you."

Richard thought the voice sounded familiar, but the ski mask over the man's face prevented him from seeing anything but his eyes, which were too hidden in shadows to see properly. He noticed the man's hands were shaking badly.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice raspy from that day's abuse.

"I'll tell you after I get you out of here," the man replied.

He ran his hand gently over Richard's brow before turning his attention to the restraints on his wrists and chest. Somehow Richard felt comforted by the gesture, even though he was still suspicious of the man's motives. Plenty of people had been sent in before to "help" him, and none of them were to be trusted. He didn't know why this man should be any different.

The man helped him sit up after he was released, and he sat rubbing at his wrists.

"No clothes?" the man asked, glancing around.

"No. They took away my sheets and blankets, too."

He shed his own jacket, and tucked it around Richard's waist. He had finely toned arms, and guns secured to his torso with a shoulder holster. There was definitely something about him that seemed familiar, but Richard couldn't place exactly what it was.

"Can you walk?" the man asked.

"I don't think so. I'm too weak, and I think there's something wrong with my left ankle."

The man knelt down before him and examined it, shifting his foot back and forth until Richard cried out in pain.  
"Broken, probably. Or fractured, at least. I'll just carry you, ok? Come on," he said, reaching out to lift him bridal style, "We need to get out of here."

If he felt any hesitation, it was quashed by his relief of finally being able to get out of the room. There wasn't much this man could do that hadn't already been done to him, anyway. The man lifted him easily, and Richard adjusted the coat around his waist before curling his arms protectively around himself, resting his head tentatively upon the man's shoulder.

He glanced around excitedly as they went through the door, processing his new surroundings. The hallway wasn't especially interesting, but any change of scenery was welcome in Richard's mind. Mostly it just seemed like a maze of unmarked doors and unlit corridors.

The man carrying him walked cautiously, pausing at every intersection of hallways to make sure no one was waiting around the corner. The building seemed suspiciously quiet, and it set Richard's nerves on edge.

"Where is everyone?" he whispered.

The man glanced down at him and shifted him in his arms.

"The building is minimally staffed on the weekends," he whispered back, "I only came across two guards on my way in, and I took care of both of them."

"Took care?"

"Killed," the man said, glancing down at Richard as if to gauge his reaction.

He simply shrugged and settled his head against the man's shoulder again. Anyone who worked in that godawful place deserved whatever they got.

Eventually they reached a set of doors that led them outside. Richard lifted his head and breathed in fresh air for the first time in three years. It made his head spin, but the light breeze felt good on his skin, and though the only thing to be seen from where they were was a few military vehicles and a large black car, he felt almost giddy to behold them. He took in the sights before them, and then glanced back at the large brick building from which they had emerged. It seemed innocuous enough, if one ignored the heavy iron bars across all the windows. Desperate to push the last three years of his life out of his mind, Richard turned his attention to the sky. He figured they must be somewhere out in the country, because there was little light pollution, and he had a good view of the stars as he tilted his head back. He spotted several constellations he knew, though he wasn't even sure how or why he could identify them. He just knew them, like he knew that grass was green, even though he couldn't recall ever seeing it. He blinked back tears as he gazed at the sky, smiling as if he was seeing an old friend for the first time in years. The man who carried him made a soft sound that Richard couldn't quite identify as they approached the black car.

"You always did like astronomy," he said thickly.

"Did I?"

The man simply nodded, and shifted his grip on Richard until he was able to open the car door. He settled down in the back seat, with his arms still securely around Richard, who he placed on his lap.

"Go," he said to the driver, who also had a ski mask over his face. The driver sped away without hesitation, zipping past a security booth that had a dead guard slumped against the window, which was splattered with blood.

The man who'd saved him seemed to be trying to ignore Richard, but also seemed to be unwilling to remove his arms from around his waist. When Richard reached up to pull his mask off, he stopped him, holding his wrists in a firm but gentle grip, until they were a few miles away from the facility. Then he pulled the mask off himself.

"Sebastian," Richard breathed, and leaned up to press their lips together.


End file.
